


Cycles of Revision

by icepower55



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Relationship Problems, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:27:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icepower55/pseuds/icepower55
Summary: His parents' knees are parallel, and still. Very still. The air crackles with something . He can’t ever find the name for it, but it’s like how animals can sense an incoming flood. That’s how he feels about his parent’s fights. Intuitive. Primal. A sixth sense.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Scorpius Malfoy/Rose Weasley
Comments: 51
Kudos: 102





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blankfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blankfish/gifts).



> So, here's the thing: My New Year's resolution is to be less of a word perfectionist, and I think sometimes that's just birthing a work and letting it breathe. This story isn't very polished and there are aspects of it I never got a chance to fix and work out, but I wrote it, and it is an act of love.
> 
> For Blankfish...who's been an amazing friend to me and is an amazing writer herself. 
> 
> EndlessMusings & Mightbewriting gave me amazing Alpha notes. I haven't done those notes justice, and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> PS: Can you get what fic this is inspired by?

They’re fighting, again. Scorpius knows this one, by heart. She starts yelling first, and then he follows, but his voice always stays a pitch below. 

_The playing field is never even,_ his dad told him once, while practicing quidditch in the garden. _You shouldn’t ever yell as loud as someone you love. One of you has to make concessions._ So his dad’s anger comes out different, in the squint of his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. 

Oh, they’re pointing now: her fingers fly everywhere. He crosses his arms. Her face turns bright red. 

“You have no idea, Draco. No idea of the sacrifices I have made for this family–”

" _I_ don’t have an idea? When’s the last time I’ve talked to my mother, Hermione? Do you have any–”

Their voices pitch higher. There's the _thwack_ of a hand on the dining room table. He has his eyes closed. His heart pounds. He curls his hands into fists, wants to stuff them against his ears. 

His mum’s voice grows heavy; the consonants clack with contempt. He lets her finish, waits out the whimper. Then: “Just stop.” His voice isn’t even loud; he hopes they heard him. 

When he opens his eyes, his parents stare back at him, gazes blank, like he’s not even there. 

* * *

There’s a rotation of fights. It goes like this: family problems, financial trouble, career stress, and then, Scorpius.

Scorpius keeps a catalogue of frequently used phrases. It sounds like this: _What is wrong with you? For Merlin’s sake--I can’t believe you. Stop yelling: Scorpius will hear you._

It’s morbid, he supposes, to pick a favorite of his parent’s fights, but Scorpius prefers the ones around career stresses; they have the simplest solution. “Just quit your jobs,” he yelled at them once. “If you’re so stressed, just bloody quit.” 

Mum grounded him for language, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t wrong, was he? The other stuff, you can’t vanquish--they can’t make his grandparents suddenly like Mum, nor can they make Dad’s investments replenish, nor can they wish Scorpius away (though maybe they have, secretly). But they can walk away from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

_You have to think smart,_ His dad liked to say. _Smart instead of hard._

Mum disagreed, so they fought about that too. Mum told him to study hard and really put in the effort. Dad paid him for good grades and “academic curiosity”: Scorpius made a passable _Felix Felix_ and Dad threw a galleon at him above the cauldron of their home potions lab. 

After winter break, he brought the little gold vial back to Hogwarts, downed it before his transfiguration exam and got suspended and sent home. Mum cried when she found out.

“You’re ruining our son,” she told Dad, and Scorpius pretended not to hear. 

* * *

He’s laying in bed, head dangling over the edge, when she steps into his field of vision.

He’s staring at her knee caps while she speaks. “Didn’t I just tell you to clean your room, Scorpius?”

They’ve had this conversation a million times; it makes his head hurt. The blood is already swimming inside his skull, pinging against all the neurons, and the sound of her disappointment makes his synapses fire harder. 

His arm falls over the bed, fingers fumbling for a stray sock near his ear. 

“Are you listening to me, Scorpius? I’ve told you, over and over, to clean this room. Look at it! This is–”

“Let him rest, Hermione.” Scorpius spies another pair of knees, the indent of movement under dress slacks. “Hatty will do it tomorrow.” 

Hatty, the paid house elf: a compromise between his parents that feels more passive aggressive than cooperative.

“Scorp’s had a long day of practice.“ Dad’s voice sounds light, but even without seeing his face, Scorpius can imagine the lines marring his forehead. “He’s probably tired.” 

His parents' knees are parallel, and still. Very still. The air crackles with _something_. He can’t ever find the name for it, but it’s like how animals can sense an incoming flood. That’s how he feels about his parent’s fights. Intuitive. Primal. A sixth sense. 

He hears his mum’s inhale. Usually, he lets the fight play out. He doesn’t particularly like cleaning his room. He _is_ tired. But he’s cracked one eye open, and he’s watching his mother’s foot _tap tap tap_ against the carpet, the tip of her slippers beating the fibers. He opens his mouth.

“It’s fine, Dad. I’ll do it.”

He pushes himself up, until he can turn and swing his legs onto the floor. They’re fighting again, anyways. It’s a routine, a choreography. _Fighting is a lot like dancing_ his dad told him while teaching him to duel. _There’s a rhythm to it._

They’re yelling at each other now, not looking at him. He barely registers to them now; they’re so caught up in their dance. 

The volume’s climbing. He wants them to leave. He starts to say, “Get out,” but the words congeal on his tongue. Where would they go? 

“It’s not your fault,” Uncle Harry will tell him later. “It wasn’t about you.” 

* * *

Scorpius gets one letter, from Rose. 

_How are you doing?_ She writes, and it’s a stupid thing to ask, but she’s so beautiful he wants to let her get away with it. 

_Hogwarts is not the same without you_ She writes, which is a lie, because she’s surrounded by friends. He doubts his absence registers. 

_I miss you_ she writes, which is painful to read, but he’s not sure why. 

Sometimes, Scorpius wishes he received more letters, but then he thinks about who else would write and nausea stabs him.

Jade Terry. Sherri Bones. Carus Dugar. Kirk Boot. 

His former best friends, none of whom he’s spoken too since that night with too much pilfered firewhiskey.

It had been right before winter break. They were sitting in the Slytherin common room, passing a bottle back and forth. They were laughing, but Scorpius wasn’t. Scorpius was thinking about his mother’s most recent letter, the smudged ink and tear stains.

“How do you think people fall out of love?” His lips felt numb, tongue thick and heavy. Had he stuttered? Why was everyone looking at him like that?

The bottle had stopped its rotation; it sat on the ground, next to Kirk’s foot. 

Things were fuzzy, growing in and out of focus. He sensed he had done something wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what, exactly. 

Finally, Kirk laughed. “Probably when the sex gets bad.” The laughter rained down, first a drizzle, then a flood, until it bounced through the dungeon, soaking into his skin. 

He closed his eyes, dropped his head into his palms. All he heard was the high-pitched laughter, that particular vibration of drunks, _HahaHAHAhaha._

“Mate, are you all right?” 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up: Kirk, with his stupid mouth and his stupid jokes. What a fucking _arse_.

He hadn’t meant to hit him so hard; he thought he had just shoved him, but then Kirk was on the floor, clutching his nose. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” he kept repeating, but Scorpius had broken his nose, so the words came out all nasally, like a cartoon. 

His friends didn’t talk to him much after that; except, that’s not really true. Earlier this month, he got letters from them, all of them, even Kirk.

He had thrown the parchments in the fire, watching the edges curl. The owls eventually stopped. 

Except Rose. She keeps writing. Sometimes Scorpius answers. 

* * *

After dinner, Uncle Ron slips him a lager and nods towards the back porch.

“How are you holding up?” he says. It’s a stupid question, a version of the one his daughter keeps writing.

Scorpius grunts, takes a sip of his lager and stares across the plains of The Burrow. 

“I know your Dad wasn’t my biggest fan,” he says. Ron’s staring out at the backyard as well, shoulders bunched. “But you’re always more than welcome here, Scorpius. There are so many people who love you.”

He’s staying at The Burrow tonight, in Rose’s room. She’s at school, like everyone else. He can’t go to his own home, because the other adults in his life are away tonight, busy. He’s sixteen, but people are treating him like a baby, a fucking invalid. 

Ron clears his throat, waiting for an answer. Scorpius can’t articulate what he feels in the moment, which is a mixture of _disgust_ and _discomfort_ and _dread_. 

_How do I feel_ ? He thinks. _How do you fucking think I feel, Weaslebee._ He hears his Dad’s voice at the last part, which feels both comforting and cruel. 

“I’m fine,” he finally settles on. He pops the lip of the bottle back into his mouth, letting the carbonation burn his throat. “I feel fine.” 

* * *

He has a special name for this fight: The Match. It’s a pun, really, since the fight revolves around his Quidditch privileges, or at least that’s what Mum calls it.

“You cannot encourage this type of behavior, Draco. Participating in a sport is a _privilege_. His marks are a disaster. If we don’t introduce consequences, how will he ever learn? He needs to be pulled off the team so he can focus on his studies.” 

“He’s sixteen, Hermione. He’s a brilliant kid, and a great Quidditch player. Are you really going to punish him for that? Let me speak to him–”

“You _enable_ him, Draco. Scorpius has no concept of consequences. You let him get away with everything, and I’m always left to be the bad auror–”

The routine starts again. He hears them move through the motions, imagines the arc of his mum’s hand as she throws it in the air, the bounce of her curls as she yells. 

“I refuse to raise our child the way you were raised, Draco. Scorpius will not grow up thinking he can do whatever he wants.” 

Scorpius winces; his eyes are closed. He knows what comes next: his father’s voice finally rises above hers, the first time Scorpius remembers hearing it that way. 

A terrible roar rushes through Scorpius’ head. He hates this part, wishes the spell came with a fast forward. The ringing in his head overpowers his parent’s voices, narrowing everything into a deep _buzz._

When he looks up again, Ginny is standing in the doorway of his bedroom. Light slants in behind her, seeping in from the hallway. He didn’t even hear the door open. 

His parents are standing there, still yelling, bodies frozen. They look relaxed, faces lax with inaction. It’s only their voices, pitching up and down. 

Ginny’s voice is even, but her hands shake against her mug. “Scorpius,” she finally says, taking a step closer. “What are you doing? 

* * *

He has a metal box and a spell; both are gifts from George: the former given, the latter taught. 

Together, they let him remember. 

“It’s like a pensive,” George told him. “But it pulls the memories outside instead of pulling you inside.” 

He had a mum and dad. Both were aurors; they were murdered, and now he only has his memories.

Scorpius calls the contraption “the box,” because it’s only a prototype, and George hasn’t gotten around to naming it yet.

“Will you test it out for me?” The redhead had asked. “You can’t interact with the memories, but you can watch them anytime, anywhere.” 

Scorpius can only say _Start_ or _Stop_. He can’t touch his parent’s ghosts, and he can’t choose what memories to play. It’s just a constant loop of his most recent memories; a 3-D photo album he has a modicum of autonomy over. 

“I built this awhile ago,” George told him. “But I haven’t been able to test it out yet. I thought maybe it would be nice for you to see them again.”

It was nice. And awful. Mostly, it was awful. 

* * *

Ginny isn’t supposed to see the box in action. Scorpius has taken great pains to avoid having anyone else see the box. He should have locked the door yesterday. Except, he forgets he has to do these things nowadays. He forgets there are still adults in his life, but he has godparents, who cook for him and try to take care of him while he’s been pulled out of Hogwarts on “bereavement,” which really just feels like an extension of his suspension. 

He’s laying on the ground, ear pressed up near the vents, when the sound of Ginny’s voice slices through the air. 

“This is obscene, Harry. How can you be okay with this? Do you have any idea what he’s watching every night?”

“He’s grieving, Ginny.” Harry’s voice lowers, but the air ducts amplify everything. If Scorpius lays on his stomach and presses his ear against the vent, he doesn’t even need a spell to hear what’s going on. “It’s only been a little over a month.”

“He needs a healer. Not whatever George has given him. I can’t believe you think this is okay. It’s unnatural--this _stupid_ memory device. They yell, and they look...just like them. But they don’t move. They just...stand there, yelling.””

If Scorpius tries, he can pretend this is just another one of his parent’s fights. The pitches are off, the barbs too weak, but the positioning is right: them in the dining room, him in his room, eavesdropping. The familiarity softens the lump in his throat. 

“We need to give him time.” Harry’s voice sounds tight, like he’s trying to keep his temper down. “He’s a teenage boy who’s lost both of his parents. How is any of that natural?”

* * *

Scorpius anticipates the knock, but he still fumbles to close the wooden box, clear his mind of memories. He opens his eyes, and his parents are gone, just like that. 

“Can I come in?” Harry’s voice penetrates through the door, and Scorpius digs his nails into his palm. 

“Sure,” he says, hustling to stuff the box into a drawer, which seems stupid even to him. What else could Harry wish to speak to him about? 

When he opens the door, he sees the bowl of stew first. “I thought you might be hungry,” Harry says, passing it to him. “You didn’t come down for dinner.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, and then he hears his mum’s chastisement, sees the shake of her head. “But thank you. I’ll probably be hungry later.”

The silence stretches out, enveloping them like taffy.

Harry stands near his desk, eyeing the clutter of books and letters splayed there. He glances at the tornado of color staining the lower wall, a relic of another one of George’s gadgets, but says nothing. 

“Will you show me?” Harry finally asks. He pantomimes a box with his hands and then clears his throat. “I haven’t had a chance to see what it does yet.” 

Scorpius pulls the box out. It feels abnormally heavy in his hands. The overhead lights glint off its metal cover. 

Panic bubbles inside his chest. He’ll have to recite the spell, clear the expanse of his mind to bring forth all the things he’s tried to bury. He does this every day–sometimes multiple times– but it feels too intimate with his godfather standing there. 

“Could you turn around for a minute? Just for me to get the spell right. I need to really concentrate.” 

Harry turns, and Scorpius inhales, closing his eyes. He slides his fingers under the cover of the box, feeling the cold metal kiss his palm. 

His heart hammers against his chest as a wave of magic rushes out, slamming into him. He has exactly thirty seconds to get the spell right, but he feels dread anticipating what memory it’ll bring forth. He can’t control this part. It’s just a loop, and he doesn’t remember which one he ended on the last time. The fight about his grandparents? The one about his grades? Will Mum be crying? 

He hears Harry’s sharp exhale as the voices start. He’s wrong; it’s actually the fight about Dad’s investments. 

“Do you have any idea what this loss means? How could you lose _so_ much, Draco?”

Scorpius’ eyes are still closed, but his memory struggles to connect the sounds with imagery. She was probably pacing, arms folded across her chest, driving a path along the oriental rug. He probably had his fingers curled over the back of a chair, the tendons of his hands jump roping, his jaw set.

“Why aren’t they moving?” Harry asks. He raises his voice over the intersection of sounds.

“I’m having trouble understanding why this is any of your business, Hermione. I haven’t touched our mutual investments. All this comes from my trust fund–”

“Stop,” Scorpius says. Immediately, the voices quiet. He opens his eyes. His parents’ ghosts stare back at him, inert. 

“Memory is tied to sense,” Scorpius begins. He doesn’t look at Harry, focusing on his dad’s eyes instead. “Sometimes I only heard them fight. Sometimes I saw them, but mostly I just heard them.”

Harry stays rooted by the desk, eyes darting between Scorpius and the outline of his parents. 

“The vents.” Scorpius points near his desk, to the parallel metal bars. “They carry sound.” He finally looks at his godfather. “From the dining room, especially.” 

He watches realization break across Harry’s face.

* * *

He’s sitting on the floor, feet pressed into the shag carpet, metal box balanced on his knees. He knows this will be the last time. He’s planned for this memory, knows exactly what will come out, but he can’t find the energy to summon it. 

Scorpius knows he’ll have to give the box up soon. The adults think he’s torturing himself, and he is–maybe–but there are also dividends to this process, this continuous loop of memories. 

He slides open the lid, feels the crackle of magic envelop him. The spell slides off his tongue, and when he opens his mouth, they’re there. 

The figures arrange themselves: she sits in his desk chair, and he kneels in front of her, hands encasing hers. 

“Hermione, I need to know: do I still make you happy? Do you think I can?” His voice cracks, face contorting as he continues. “I need you to be happy, and if I can’t do that for you anymore, then we’ll figure it out--with Scorpius, with everything. But I need to know.”

She covers her face with her hands, rolling her shoulders forward until her chin presses into her throat. “I don’t know, Draco. I never thought it would be this hard.” 

“I love you.” He pries her hands away, pushes back the wet curls from her cheeks. “Even though things haven’t been good. I don’t want to give up on us, but I will, if that’s what you need.” 

The intimacy of the moment makes Scorpius want to look away. He feels the same voyueristic shame as when he saw the original incident. But he can’t look away; he needs to hear what she says as well. 

She inhales, closes her eyes. For a long beat, she says nothing, and then: “I don’t think I’m ready to give up on us either.” She’s gripping his hands.

Scorpius slams the box shut; he doesn’t want to see the kiss. He doesn’t want the adults to see this is what he’s been holding onto. It’s not the last memory he has of them alive. It’s not where their relationship ended, but Scorpius can’t help thinking: that’s where they could have begun again. 


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He sits in the conservatory, on a leather loveseat. Every few minutes, he shifts to avoid the gold studs that press into his back uncomfortably._
> 
> _“You have his eyes,” Narcissa says. The teacup trembles in her grip. “You have my son’s eyes.”_
> 
> _“I’m sorry,” Scorpius says._

“Scorpius”–Ginny opens her mouth, closes it, and touches the rim of her mug–“we think you should see a mind healer.”

There are a lot of things Scorpius wants to say, but the words slip past him, until all he can form is: “Why?”

Harry leans forward, elbows pitched against the mahogany dining table. “Grieving is nothing to be ashamed of, but we think it would be beneficial to look at other ways to grieve–”

“Is this about the box? I’ll stop using it if it’s such a big deal,” he says, though he knows this is a lie.

Ginny clears her throat. “This is about the box, yes, but it’s also about your behavior and–”

“What’s wrong with my behavior?” He feels anger twist up his neck, pull against his tongue. “What exactly is the appropriate behavior after one’s parents are murdered? ” 

“Scorp”–Ginny winces and wraps both hands around her mug. The lines around her eyes have grown starker–”It’s not healthy to keep viewing those fights–”

“I _lived_ those fights. I _caused_ many of those fights–”

“That’s not true.” Harry reaches a hand out, and Scorpius jerks his arms away.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Scorpius’ voice comes out strange and tight, the syllables ready to crack. “Do you even know what happened?”

“Scorpius, your parents were caught in a–”

“But _why_ do you think it happened? Do you honestly believe two of the best aurors in the division suddenly let their guard down?” 

“It was a–”

“ _No._ ” He throws up his hand, hears the echo of his Dad’s voice: _The worst thing you can be in a duel is distracted. You have to stay focused, Scorp._ “They had a fight, a big one. About me.”–His heart pounds, chest constricting with nausea–“I had just been suspended. Mum wanted me to stop playing Quidditch.” 

His airway is narrowing, spots beginning to appear in his visual field. “They were so angry. I’ve never heard Dad raise his voice like that.” He inhales, presses his fingers against his eyes; he feels wetness behind them. “Then they got called to that raid.” 

The silence drags out. He hears a whimper, but he’s not sure if it’s from him or his aunt. 

“Scorp,” Harry says. The compassion in his voice revolts Scorpius. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m done talking about this at all.” Scorpius stands up, scrapes back his chair. “They died, and nothing can bring them back. You think I don’t know that?”

* * *

George comes the next afternoon. Scorpius hasn’t eaten since yesterday and feels a frisson of gratitude when he spies the plate in George’s hand. 

“Hey Scorp.” The redhead doesn’t wait to be invited before striding into the room. He places the plate on Scorpius’ desk and leans against the edge of it, arms crossed. “I think we should talk.” 

Scorpius snorts. He’s still in bed, and a part of him wants to pull the covers over his head and disappear. Instead, he crosses his arms. “They’re making you take back the box, aren’t they?”

George smiles and huffs out a soft laugh. “I gather you’re not happy about it.” 

“It’s none of their business.”

“They’re worried about you, Scorp. I’m worried about you.”

“Well, you’re the one who gave it to me.”

George winces, and Scorpius feels a spark of shame.

“I did, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“You mean, you didn’t know _they_ were like that.” 

George crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed. He has on a dark blue crew neck sweater and khakis, and Scorpius feels very juvenile and exposed in his striped pajama set. 

“There are better ways to grieve, Scorpius. There are people who could help you–”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I know. Of course there isn’t, but constantly re-living these memories isn’t–”

“Healthy? Do you think any of this is healthy? Was healthy? I think we’re past that point.” 

When he grows combative like this, he remembers his mum’s face, the way she would touch his forehead and say _you argue just like your father_ , the way she tried to sound stern but ended up sounding amused instead. 

George stays silent. He leans over, back stooped, fingers steepled across his mouth. When he finally speaks, he doesn’t look at Scorpius. “Do you know why I created it?”

Scorpius runs the pad of his thumb across the corner of the bedsheets. “I assumed it was a challenge of sorts, something to occupy yourself with.” 

“Yes, in some ways, but not what you’re thinking. I’d been working on it for some time, testing different variations of the spell interactions.” George presses his palms flat on his knees and looks over at Scorpius. “I missed Fred. I thought this would be a way of spending more time with him, but when I finished...I couldn’t bear to open the box. I just–I didn’t know what my most recent memories of him were. It had been so long. I thought maybe it would be better for you.” George clears his throat. “I had no idea what was going on at home.” 

Scorpius exhales a strangled laugh. “Well, not many people did. I won’t fault you for that.” 

“Scorp...this has to stop. You’re torturing yourself.”

His muscles hurt; something deep, twined into his marrow, sharp and throbbing. He wants to go back to sleep. He wants this all to end. He wants to wake up, early in the morning, to the sounds of his father’s slow footfalls descending the stairs and the fast dash of his mother ascending them. He wants to hear that pause in the middle, when they meet and acknowledge one another: a kiss, or a _good morning_ , or even a _goodbye_. He would settle for even a _goodbye._

* * *

He holds out for a few more days, but eventually he brokers a deal with his godparents: he’ll go to the healer, but he needs a bit more time with the box.

Ginny apparates with him to a robin-blue waiting room, and she pats his back and nudges him forward when the door of an office opens. His healer tells him to call her Michelle. She wears pastel tunics and keeps her spectacles looped around her neck, dangling from a copper chain. She’s a pediatric mind healer. Stuffed animals in bright colors are scattered across her office. He feels affronted when he walks in. He’s an orphan, not an infant. 

Scorpius sits on the loveseat in her office, and they stare at each other, each willing the other to break.

“Hi Scorpius,” she says. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.” 

Scorpius hears his father’s sneer and his mother’s sigh. He feels the pull of both answers, both tones. He finally settles on: “I’d rather not.” 

“Okay,” she says. “That’s fine. We don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.” She smiles, and he snorts and looks away.

* * *

His life becomes a new routine; the weeks pass, he goes to therapy, takes meals in his room, and avoids his godparents. 

The snow outside has begun to melt. After dinner each night, he ventures downstairs and out the door. In the frigid early February air, he walks around the block, kicking the yellowing sludge over his boots. 

Everywhere he goes, he feels the tug of memories. What surprises Scorpius most about grief isn’t its presence, the way it has sinks into him, eroding his reason. Instead, he feels most surprised by the erasure of grief: for every fight he re-watches between his parents, he feels other memories splinter and break off, drifting away from his safekeeping. He wants these walks to ground him, to tether him to this life, this home, where his parents once lived. 

He stops in front of the shed, where his father hung his broom. He reaches for it, tracing his finger over its rounded tip. “I miss you, Dad.” The wind swallows his voice. When he turns around, he sees his godparents standing in the window, watching him. 

* * *

He stares at the garish robin-blue wallpaper behind her, avoiding her gaze. Michelle wears a gold tunic, with pink silk-printed roses on the sleeves. She has on scalloped edge ballet flats and offers him candy from a purple dish on her desk. 

“How are you feeling today?” she asks.

He lets the silence drag out. He hears Ginny clear her throat from outside the door. He hates that she waits for him, like she worries he’ll run off. 

“Fine,” he says. 

“Are you sure?” She tilts her head and squints at him through the glare of her glasses. 

He exhales. He hates this, all of it. He wishes he had his mother’s patience. “Well,” he says. “How would _you_ feel, Michelle? If you were in my position.” 

He waits for her to grow defensive, or annoyed, or placating. Instead, she stares up, pausing, as if lost in deep thought. “I would feel lonely,” she finally says. “And I would want someone to talk to.” 

* * *

He has a letter from Rose sitting on his desk, untouched. His godparents are at Hogwarts this weekend, visiting. His eyes burn, red-rimmed. 

Tonight, he’ll go back to The Burrow, eat dinner with Lavender and Ron. Tomorrow, he’ll visit his grandparents, strangers he hasn’t seen in years. 

Soon, he’ll have to figure out what to do, where to live. His grandparents want him to move to Malfoy manor, but his godparents have offered to become his legal guardians. His life will fracture further, but he’s tired of making decisions. He doesn’t want to leave this house he’s grown up in. He’ll categorize it as just another loss. 

When Michelle’s face bursts into the floo, he swallows and looks away. This is pathetic, flooing his healer from his bedroom. He wishes he could take it back, but she’s already there, blinking at him. 

“How do you feel, Scorpius?” Her voice is calm. It’s late. He must have woken her, but she doesn’t seem upset or tired. 

The clock in the hall whistles. He listens to the rhythm of his breaths. “Alone,” he finally settles on. “I feel alone.” 

* * *

He sits in the conservatory, on a leather loveseat. Every few minutes, he shifts to avoid the gold studs that press into his back uncomfortably. 

“You have his eyes,” Narcissa says. The teacup trembles in her grip. “You have my son’s eyes.” 

“I’m sorry,” Scorpius says. 

* * *

He stares at the still-life painting behind her: Monet’s _Water Lilies_ , his mother’s favorite. Michelle wears a chrysanthemum yellow dress that tapers into lace long sleeves. 

“How do you feel today?” she asks.

At home, he has a Nimbus 3000, a gift from Lucius.

“Do you ride well?” His grandfather had asked.

“Not as well as my father,” he had responded.

He hasn’t been on a broom since his last Quidditch game with his father.

“Angry,” he finally settles on. “I feel angry.” 

* * *

Spring settles over his life like a fog. The flower sprout in his backyard, and he begins to pack up his life: bunching the last sixteen years into a series of boxes.

He hasn’t given an answer yet. There are two rooms for him, one in Malfoy Manor, and one in 12 Grimmauld Place. One with a couple that resents him, and one with a couple he resents. 

His godparents will have to move out of his home soon. Their own children will filter back from Hogwarts, and Scorpius will have to leave his home and figure out how to restart his life. 

“How’s the packing coming along?” Harry leans against the doorway, a steaming mug held in his hand. 

Scorpius shrugs, but looks up to make eye contact. He’s trying. He comes to dinner sometimes now. He makes small talk. He says _thank you_. He wants to be the type of person his mum would be proud of.

“I was thinking maybe you could take a break, and we could go for a ride. I don’t think you’ve tried out the new broom yet.”

Scorpius pauses. He’s gripping a cable knit sweater, the arms halfway to folded. He hasn’t flown in months. He feels a _thud_ in his chest when he thinks through the motions of it. _Flying is an art,_ his father used to say. _It's an act of faith._

“I haven’t been on a broom in months. I probably couldn’t keep up right now.” 

“Well, I’ll go easy on you then.” 

* * *

Harry’s not as good as good on a broom as his father, and the knowledge gives Scorpius a small, sad thrill. He’s here, he tells himself, only because he hates packing more. 

The night sky opens beyond them, a deep, dusty orchid expanse that blots out the lights of the city below. 

He follows his godfather, focusing on the thrum of the wood beneath his thighs, the feel of wind through his hair. They break through a clearing of clouds and dive down. Scorpius is so focused on the landing, he misses the landscape cues. 

His feet skid across grass, wet with dew, and he finds purchase on rounded granite. Towers of stone surround him, moonlight illuminating the inscriptions. 

He shuts his eyes, chest constricting with labored breath. “What are we doing here?” he asks.

“It’s okay to miss them.” Harry’s voice comes from somewhere to his left, but Scorpius refuses to turn his head. 

“I’m not doing this.” He reaches for his broom, bending into a crouch. He feels his godfather’s fingers on his shoulder and wrenches away. “What the fuck are you doing? Bringing me here?” 

If he looks to his left, he knows what he’ll find, the twin sets of tombstones, the _Malfoy-Granger_ epigraphs. 

“Scorpius”–Harry grips his hand, and Scorpius tries to recoil, but the other man only holds harder–”I miss your parents every day.” 

“That’s _great_.” He says, turning away. “Thank you very much for sharing that.” His neck burns; the world sways. When his knees buckle, shame floods him; Harry’s arms wrap around him, lowering him to a seated position. 

Scorpius’ collar feels wet, the front of his neck tacky with something he doesn’t want to admit to. 

He stays seated, hands dangling from the peak of his knees. He should get up and storm out; he wants to get up and storm out. Except, he’s exhausted. The world feels heavy, titled on its axis and spinning. The only remaining option is to sit next to his godfather, silent, both of them staring at the tombstones. He doesn’t want to read the epigraphs.

“It’ll probably always feel a bit like this.” Harry says eventually. The other man has released Scorpius and doesn’t look over as he speaks. “Being an orphan never really gets easier, but you do learn to live with it.”

* * *

He stares at the window beside her: May has risen, and the hydrangeas outside sway with the breeze. Michelle wears a gauzy purple top over some type of knitted sundress. On her desk rests a wide-brimmed straw hat. 

“How are you feeling today?” she asks.

He thinks of the calla lilies he’s left as his mother’s grave, the blue irises he’s left with his father’s. The anemones he’s laid between them.

“Guilt,” he settles on. “I feel guilty.” 

* * *

Ginny helps him clear out the study. They find a wedding photo album; he’s seen it before, but she brings him a new perspective of stories. 

“Your mother actually got a little tipsy at the reception. Her dress is slightly torn there because she tripped on it while dancing.”

In the photograph, his dad dips his mum, a liquid arc; on the upswing, Scorpius catches a flutter of ripped lace, near the hem. 

They’re smiling at each other, mouths pursed against some type of secret they’re communicating. 

“They were happy once, weren’t they?” Scorpius traces the corner of the photograph, watching the choreography loop.

“Extremely so. We used to find them sickening.” Ginny laughs, a short, embarrassed spurt of air. 

He feels her watching him, and when he looks up, she puts her arm around him and freezes, waiting for his recoil. 

A part of him wants to pull back, stumble away. She’s staring at him, eyes wide, a furrow creasing her brow. He knows how hard she’s trying, so he stays very still, forces himself to breathe through the discomfort. He’s trying as well.

* * *

He stares at Michelle’s nails on the table. Her cuticles are chewed, and it makes him feel better, strangely, that a level of balance has been restored. She’s seen him cry, but he’s seen her ugly cuticles. 

“How are you feeling today,” she asks. 

June is an ugly, hazy month, filled with teetering brown boxes and the sound of footsteps in the hallway as his godparents ready the house for sale. He wishes he were someone who knew how to say goodbye more easily. 

“Shame,” he says. “I feel shame.”

“Why do you feel ashamed, Scorpius?” 

He stays silent; she prods again. “Why were you watching those memories, Scorpius?

He feels a strand of incredulous laughter bubble in his chest. Of course Harry and Ginny have told her; this shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. 

“I don’t know,” he settles on. 

He watches as she crosses her ankles; the plastic surface of her sandals _clack_ together. 

“Were you trying to punish yourself?”

His breaths are coming in shorter and shorter bursts. He digs his nails into the wood armrest of the chair. He tries to focus on the bright wave of hydrangeas, but she moves into his line of vision. “Scorpius, why are you still punishing yourself?”

He opens his mouth, steeling himself, ready to tell her to fuck off or to say he’s leaving. Instead, his voice sounds small and meek, and his shame grows as the words torrent out: “Because if I stop, then I don't get to hear their voices anymore." 

* * *

He takes the photo album with him to Malfoy Manor, splits open the spine and shows Narcissa his favorites. 

“They’re lovely,” she says, expression inscrutable. She touches the lace of his mother’s gown. “A muggle style, I see.” 

They weren’t invited to the wedding, but he shows them this album anyways. _This is who I am_ Scorpius wants to say. _A mixture of the both: part muggle born, part pure blood. Can you learn to live with that?_

He flips to the last photograph: him, aged two–dressed in his ring bearer’s outfit– hoisted between his mum and dad. 

“This one’s my favorite,” he says, and he watches the light play over Narcissa’s eyes. 

* * *

Lucius takes him out to the manor gardens. “I’d like to see you ride,” he says. When Scorpius gets on the broom, the older man clears his throat and looks away, like he’s in pain. “You look like Draco did, when he was your age.” 

“I’m sorry,” Scorpius says, because he’s not sure what else to say. “I know it must be hard...to see me and be reminded–”

“No,” Lucius says. “It’s not a bad thing.” He walks towards Scorpius. Up close, he looks tired, the dark purple shadows under his eyes stark against his skin. “There are things that I did wrong with Draco,” he says. “But I think it could be different now.” He doesn’t say _with you_ but Scorpius can sense the words, and he swallows and kicks off, rising into the air, until his grandfather becomes just a pinprick dotted on the green lawn. 

* * *

He stares at Michelle. For the first time, he really looks at her. She is different from all the other adults in his life, less polished, softer. She’s studying him as well, and he thinks this should feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t, not really.

“How are you feeling today?” she asks. 

“You ask me that every time,” he answers, but not unkindly. 

“I’m curious every time.” 

At this, he smiles, and then looks away. July is full of pollen and mosquitos. The days are long and blossom into inky nights, illuminated by the spark of lightning bugs. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he sneaks out of the house, takes his father’s broom, and travels to the cemetery. He doesn’t dismount, but he knows exactly where his parents’ graves are. It’s his intuition, a way in which he’ll always be tethered to his regrets. High above, balanced on the broom, he waits for the first rays of dawn to break. He likes to think It’s how he keeps them company. 

“Okay,” he says. “I feel okay.” 

* * *

The box feels strange in his hands, volatile, thrumming with energy. He’s held it before, so many times, but he’s never felt the full weight of it in this way. 

“This is the right thing to do,” Harry says.

Scorpius doesn’t say anything. He slides his hand along the cover of the box and closes his eyes. “What if I miss their voices?” he finally asks. “What if I forget?”

“We forget things every day,” Harry says. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t survive in their own way.”

* * *

The day before Scorpius has to move out, Rose comes over.

She chatters all the way up to his room. “Everyone at school misses you,” she says, glancing over at him. He snorts and opens his bedroom door, feels the sting of embarrassment as she takes in the disarray over his floors. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m getting ready to move.”

“Where are you moving to?” She asks. He’s been avoiding this question in all her letters, but now there’s nowhere to hide.

“I don’t know yet.” He feels small standing there, surrounded by boxes filled with the detritus of his life. “I still have to make a decision.” 

She stays quiet. He looks at the ground, unsure of what to say now. In their letters, he spoke about Michelle, about his godparents, about his grandparents. He never wrote about how much he missed her, how he thought about her all the time, how beautiful she was; he trusted she could read between the lines for that. 

“That’s okay,” she finally says. Her lips are shiny and red-tinged, and when she turns, a strand of her hair is ensnared in the gloss. He pushes it behind her ear without thinking, and then pulls back, cheeks flushing. She steps closer instead, slides her fingers down his wrist and squeezes. “I’ll help you finish packing.” 

He hears Michelle’s voice in his head: _How do you feel now?_

 _Hopeful_ he thinks, and he leans in. 

**Author's Note:**

> Answer: "Creatures of the Wind" by EveryThursday, which made me bawl my eyes out.


End file.
